Trial
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: Verry smutty, angsty little oneshot Snarry. Harry saves Snape from Azkaban, and the following conversation ensues. Then smut. Then angst. in that order. R&R!


_Trial_

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_Warning: Harry speaks intelligently! (I know, big shock. oh, and he's also in denial about watching Severus eat) Oh, and, must I mention...the Smut!? Lots! _

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Why am I here? When they told me his trial date, I didn't care, so why do I suddenly find myself in the ministry, sitting at the back of a crowded courtroom, watching as his hollow onyx eyes scan the room for a familiar face? I don't owe him anything. I killed Voldemort and most of the Death Eater's, besides Draco and a few others that got away. And now here I am at his trial. His searching eyes rest on me and seem to still, his whole body going rigid. He looks for a moment as if he was about to call something, but he doesn't. He looks away in…what? Shame? I don't know. I could be anywhere, _anywhere_, but I choose to be here. What is wrong with me? Maybe after Ron and Hermione died, I'm just desperate to see a familiar face, one that hasn't gone mad. Yet.

The trial commences and they read off a list of his crimes. He doesn't twitch until they get to the part about Dumbledore. Then his eyes close and mouth opens, as if he was dead. But he's not. The whole room is so quiet; you can hear his ragged breath. They stop reading off his sins and ask if there is a defendant for him, a reason he should not be sentenced to life in Azkaban. For some reason my mouth opens and almost emits sound, as if there was something I had to say. I don't. He killed Dumbledore; he killed hundreds of other, faceless witches, wizards, and muggles alike. And yet, my voice works, and I'm not quite sure what I'm saying because I'm still trying to figure out why my mouth had opened in the first place. Everyone turns to stare at me and now my legs are moving, bringing me up towards him, towards the front of the room. Scrimgour is wide-eyed, staring at me as if I had grown two heads. Maybe I had. Maybe that's why I can't seem to figure out why I was walking and talking without my brains consent. Now I'm standing at the front, standing right in front of him, still talking. What am I saying? I turn to look at the crowd of people behind me and continue speaking, still unsure of what I was saying. Whatever it was got a reaction right away, because there was an outburst of noise, indignant sounds, screams, yells, and shouts. I turn to the panel, eyes direct, and now I know what I'm saying, and I agree.

"Free him," the words flow from my mouth, slow and commanding; as if there was no way I thought I could fail. And I knew I couldn't. By some strange twist in fate, scrimgour looked stunned for a moment, and then motioned to the key holders. The prisoner was thrust at me and I caught and held onto him until he got his feet under him. When he was steady, I let go and bowed to the familiar ministry faces, and spun, walking out. He followed me—as if he had a choice, I was going out the only exit—and when we got about ground in central London, I turned to him.

"Do you have a place to go?" He shook his head, slightly dazed by the bright midmorning sun. I nodded and asked permission to apparate us. He nodded slowly, looking at me suspiciously, and grabbed my arm. We spun into place outside of my home, a small house on the edge of the forest. I opened the door and proceeded inside, making it obvious that he should follow. He sat down uninvited on the couch and, after a minute, I sat on the opposite chair.

"Why did you do that, Potter?" was the first thing he said once he got things under control.

"I honesty don't know," I said tiredly, shaking my head. He nodded, as if this answer made sense—and if it did, that's news to me—and closed his eyes, massaging his temples.

"You wouldn't happen to have anything to eat, would you? They don't exactly have feasts in Azkaban,"

"Oh! Right you must be parched as well. I'll go get some food and drinks and stuff," I said running off to the kitchen, any power I had held at the ministry gone.

When I got back I carried a plate bursting with delicious food, as well as a large goblet of water. He didn't question my choice of drink, and downed that immediately, before starting to eat. He did not eat like a starved prisoner, but like he had when he was potions master at Hogwarts—not that I had been watching him or anything—slowly. Very, very slowly. When I got tired of just sitting there, watching him eat, I pulled out a book from the shelf by the fireplace and started to read.

After a while he cleared his throat and I looked up. He had eaten everything on the plate, and was now looking at me questioningly. I jumped up, grabbed the plate, and took it into the kitchen. When I reappeared, he was staring at me curiously through half-closed eyes.

"You must be tired. There's a guest room right over here," I walked over to the open door, "and I guess we can talk when you wake up. My room is there, in case you need anything, and there's food and stuff in the kitchen. The bathroom is over there and there's some extra towels and stuff in the closet. Make yourself at…home…" I looked at him and he nodded, getting up and going over to the bathroom.

"I think I would like to be clean first and I will run the risk of falling asleep in the shower."" He said dryly. I nodded, smiling slightly, and walked over to my door.

"If you need anything…" I said and he nodded. I disappeared into my room, being followed by a quiet, almost unheard 'thank you'. And for the first time in a long time, I smiled a very small, very real smile.

When he had showered, I found him sitting at the kitchen table, studying his hands, which were clasped in front of him, with an almost fascinated scrutiny. I sat down across from him slowly, feeling as if I tread in dangerous territory.

"Are you still unsure as to the cause of your actions, today?" He spoke fist, with as much authority as when we had first met, though without the bitter overtones. I realized that I liked his voice. Without the obvious hatred, it was nice, smooth. Realizing that I was wasting my time admiring his voice, rather than answering his question, I shook myself out of whatever daze I had fallen into.

"Yes, I'm still quite...confused." I said slowly, trying to ignore the large, flashing red lights going off inside my head that screamed 'denial!, denial!' at me in a painful whiny siren. Snape raised an eyebrow, and I suddenly had the irrational thought that he knew what I was thinking.

"You're lying," he said with obvious amusement. What was I thinking!? _Of course_ he could read minds! I had been spending too long outside of the wizarding world, and my forgetfulness had forced me into a corner again. Would I ever learn!? I sighed.

"Yes," I admitted. He smirked that dreadful smirk of which I loathe with all of my being...that is, at the present time, sometimes that smirk could be extremely sexy, and could give a fellow too many ideas...most of which had me pressed to his desk, I will admit. The smirk widened, and I about shot myself right then and there.

"Oh, really Potter? I did not know you were so...infatuated with me," he said, as I continued to curse my folly. I blushed, but held his gaze, refusing to look down, and cause myself more shame. At the same time, I felt the heat rush downward, and wondered at the timing of my thoughts. Could it get any worse?

"I suppose that lowers the respect held for your occlumency, then," Was my response. Pretty good, if I do say so myself. Especially for someone who is as... preoccupied as I am.

"I do admit, my skill depends on what I'm looking for, and truly, that thought never crossed my mind," He was still smirking that god-awful smirk, damn him. When I did not speak, he asked quietly--seemingly the only due respect I get for saving him would be that quiet voice! -- "How long has this been going on, Potter?" I clenched my fists, and at first, did not answer. Then I grumbled, in a tone that could be reproachful,

"Fourth year," I was examining the kitchen table now. My, I _did_ have a wonderful table, all those grainy swirls, the multiple colors, that interesting knothole...

"And you have said nothing?" This startled me, so much that I looked up and met his gaze as I answered.

"I did not expect to be greeted with much more than harsh words and perhaps a curse, Professor. Why would I voice something that would only get me into more trouble? Besides, would you truly have taken me seriously? Disregarding for now the fact that the most likely circumstance would be a hexing, or worse. I highly doubt it, Professor. I assumed my feeling would diminish with time, or become buried. I thought I could delude or distract myself. Clearly, as shown today at the trial, I was mistaken." Snape stared at me for a while, not the open-mouthed stare I usually get from people, just a very long look, scrutinizing me.

"I did not think you capable of such speeches Potter," He said when he was finished looking. Before I said something, he continued, "But no, you are right, I would not have taken you seriously, and perhaps I might have resorted to yelling, or threats. I was merely curious as to how you--loud as you are--could have kept quiet for so long."

"As you might guess, Professor, I was young, and under the impression that something was seriously wrong with me." A bark of laughter came from the man across the table, and I looked up wonderingly. I had never heard him laugh...

"Of course something had to be wrong. I'm your Potions Master, am I not? And oh, don't forget; spy and Death Eater who just so happened to be the cause of your parents death!" There was bitterness there, of that I was not mistaken. Ignoring the fact that the words 'I'm', 'your' and 'master' had been in a sentence concerning me--yes, I know, all these pent up hormones are addling my brain--I spoke, looking down yet again.

"No," I said quietly, "the cause of their death was an unlucky circumstance, a choice made, unknowingly, by my godfather, not yours. And, Potions Master or not, spy, or Death Eater, it doesn't matter. No, I felt as if something was wrong with me, because for ten years I had been strictly shown that homosexuality is _wrong_. Thanks to the dursleys men, I had very twisted ideas about many things."

"How can you say it is of no matter? And their death will always be one of my greatest regrets, no matter your words. But not, let us not debate that topic, perhaps save it for a different time." at his words I got excited; the thought that he would be around for another discussion threw me from my pensive mood. He noticed too, the cursed man, delving into my thoughts as he was. He rose and eyebrow, but said nothing, continuing with his train of thought.

"I cannot help but noticed you specified which Dursleys helped you get such a twisted view. Would you care to explain it?" I looked at him straight in the eye, grateful that this man was the one I spoke with about such things, for I know I could depend on him not to be overly sentimental or sentimental at all. I could count on him to take what I said, think it over, and reply with a logical answer, free of any personal regards or sympathy. This I reveled in, this I enjoyed.

"I was beaten," I spoke in a cold voice, a voice that sounded more like a report, rather than a retelling. "And raped. I believe it started when I was six, and it stopped when I was 16, old enough to use subtle magic that the ministry could not detect. Magic, by the way, that I found in your book. I'll be eternally grateful; though I'm sure you could care less for my thanks. Dumbledore didn't know; no one knew, and I could not blame them, either. I was good at hiding it, good at keeping secrets." He did that looking-at-me-for-a-long-time thing again, that rested his elbows on the table and placed his fingertips together.

"And the fate of the Dursleys?" he asked. Well, he sure knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

"Dead. By my own hand," I responded, noting the slightest bit of shock that flinted across his eyes with satisfaction.

"My, you really should have been in Slytherin, shouldn't you?" was all his response. I shrugged. I didn't put much faith in the houses, and I never had, except maybe in my first year, but that couldn't be helped.

"And now?" he asked. "How is your...psychological state? I assume you've recovered?" Stifling the urge to ask him why he suddenly cares for my well-being, I shrugged again. It seemed to be an annoying habit, in the making.

"As well as can be expected. I still have nightmares, but they cannot be helped. They are fewer and far between than I can imagine yours being, so I can't complain." He seemed to take it in stride that I had considered his nightmares, and didn't contradict the statemeant.

"So, falling in love during fourth year, with a teacher, might I add. How unfortunate." he mocked, sitting back in his chair with the haunty I'm-laughing-at-you air. I clenched my fists, then unclenched them. I knew by now that there was no real reason to by angry, besides petty once I had long outgrown.

"I never said I had stopped," I said, fixing my eyes on his. He did not stir, he looked as if he had expected as much, and that made me feel predictable and young.

"No, I don't recall hearing you voice that one," he agreed, in a most unagreeing tone. "So, the love-filled, hormone-ridden teenager rescues the evil Death Eater from Azkaban, then brings him back to his home for god know what reason, mostly wicked-intentioned, no doubt, and--" I broke off his speech by getting up angrily and pacing out of the room, fists clenched tightly.

"That's not how it is, and you know it." I heard myself grown, my lips obviously doing that thing again; when they run and talk without my say-so. "You are free to go whenever; free of obligation or regret. You have a guest room and clothes that you may use. You are, in no way, being forced to live here, or forced into anything, whether it be out of pity, or a payment due." I heard myself continue to voice this long speech, and marveled at the new vocabulary I had picked up over the years.

"No," I heard him say, his voice right in my ear, before he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and spun me around. I had almost reached the stairs, and now felt by back to the wall paralleling the staircase. He was very close, and again, I could not control my thoughts enough to where the different scenarios did not overpower my normal thought process.

"I stay out of my own volition." he growled, before pressing himself to me, viciously taking my lips to his. It was such a shock that it took me several long moments to register the sudden change, but I was brought back by the forceful prodding of his tongue to my lower lip. I opened my mouth readily, warmth tingling allover my body as I experienced what I had fantasized about for so long.

His hands slid down my shoulders, down my waist, and rested on my hips, while my own tugged at his shirtfront, impatient to get his robes off. He shrugged out of them, keeping the contact between out mouths without a pause, and then started to disrobe me. With his tongue in my mouth and hands over my body, I could not think past the ocean of sensations that flooded me. I feared that my knees would collapse, leaving me helplessly huddled on the floor, and I was grateful for his weight against me, and the wall at my back, knowing it was all that kept me standing.

I felt muddled, unable to think or register anything besides what he did, what I felt. After another moment of reveling in the sensations, he broke away from my mouth, and moved to my throat, which was easily accessible; due to the fact that he had managed to get my robes _and_ shirt off while I was caught up. He was breathing hard, as was I, and in between breaths and the delightful sucking at my throat, he managed to speak. (How he did this I'll never know, if it were me, I doubt I could multitask such as he was).

"Maybe," breath, "We should," breath-suck-lick "Move," breath "To your room,"

He managed to relive me of my pants,--a feat I would surely not be attempting too soon (talking, licking, sucking, biting, _and_ disrobing? how could he do it?)--as I nodded, and attempted to move. I moved to the side carefully--and he seemed to realize I might fall, because he moved all my weight so that he was supporting me--then attempted to climb the stairs.

He never let go, moving with me and continuing the wondrous ministrations at my neck. Truly, I marveled at him, deciding he got extra points for this feat alone. Halfway up I tripped (have you ever tried walking backwards up stairs with someone following you, crating delightful sensations allover your body? I think not!) And landed, not as hard as I thought, with my back to the scratchy carpet. We looked at each other for a moment, and then he went back to what he was previously doing. Now he ran his lips, then his tongue, over my collarbone, which seemed to stick out more than I remembered (or perhaps it had never been brought to my attention in quite this fashion).

I moved my hands over his back and up to his neck, burying one in his hair as the other attempted to get the pesky shirt away from his chest. He moved briefly so that I could take it all the way off, then returned to my collarbone.

His lips, soft and slightly moist, rested open against my skin, and his tongue would flicker out to lap at it, creating a tickling sensation that sent skivers down my spine. At times, it seemed like he was attempting to take a certain patch of skin all the way into his mouth, leaving a red, or even blue mark when he moved on to a different part of my tender chest. Finally, the discomfort of lying on the stairs outweighing my need to feel more of his body, I managed to say, very, very quietly;

"Severus..." He looked up at me from the spot right above my navel (of which we both had found was _very_ sensitive),

"Yes?" he asked, clearly wanting to return to his prior activity.

"Maybe, we should continue attempting to get to my room?" I reasoned, moving slightly to keep the stair from pressing into my back. Of course, the movement was better described arching into him, and I received a confused look before he realized what I meant, and that I was lying on the stairs.

"Of course," he said, and stood, bending to pick me up. He opened the door to my room as if he had always belonged inside of it, and laid me on the large bed. He then easily slid from his pants and came to lay with me. His arm was pressed against the bed to my left, supporting his weight as he leaned in to kiss me, one of his knees pressing into the bed between my legs. His thigh pressed--if lightly--against my groin and I groaned into his kiss. Moving his mouth away, he looked down at me, his long black hair brushed the side of my face as his dark eyes attempted to pry the very secrets of my soul forth from my own eyes.

"Are you sure, then, that this is what you want?" he asked me. As if he needed to. I'm sure my most-obvious hard on and lust-filled eyes, not to mention my prior statemeant of 'I love you' could tell him that much. But, I guess, taking into consideration as to what the Dursleys did, and my twisted views and such, he had a right to question.

"Yes," I said firmly, moving my hands down his bare back and to his hips, pushing at his boxers. His body relaxed against mine and I felt our lengths press against each other through our boxers as his lips returned to me. It seemed as if he started his journey down my body all over again, and the agonizing, though bliss-filled wait drove me insane. When at last he got to my navel, again, he stopped and looked up at me. Apparently he needed no further urging but for the look of my eyes, as he continued what he was doing. He ran his hands over both of my hips, moving his mouth there to follow their path, slowly kissing at the hem of my boxers and the slight trail of hair before he started to slide my boxers down.

Once he had removed them completely, he wasted no time in taking me into his mouth. Warmth engulfed (SP?) me, sending hot shivers down to the tip of my toes, and up to the top of my spine. His soft tongue slid over the back of my shaft and his teeth grazed lightly were they rested every movement of his creating a new sensation. He started to suck, to pull at me with his mouth, moving his head up and down slowly. I was attempting not to rock forward, but the urge was strong. Apparently he knew this, for he placed gentle hands on my hips to keep my still. The feeling of his warm hands there added a new wave of hot shivers, and I moaned. Before I released, he moved away, prolonging the pleasure further as I moved under his touch. He ran his hands lightly allover my body as I moved, looking down at me and smiling.

I returned to my feeble attempts at removing his boxers, and this time he helped me, sliding out of them and then resting against me. Of course, I could not help but stare. I had dreamed, fantasized, and spent long hours thinking about this moment--of which I had never thought would come--and now here it was. I continued to stare. He moved to cover my lips with his again and my eyes closed, the touch of his lips, and the hardness pressed to my inner thigh was more than enough to convince my lust-heavy lids to close. When he moved back, I looked up at his face.

"Have you done this before?" he asked softly. I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. He smiled and gently pushed me over until I was face down on the bed.

"Never be ashamed of that," he said quietly, seeming to follow my train of thought.

"How...?" I was not ignorant, I knew the mechanics, and I was aware that something along the lines of lube was needed here, if we wanted to save me some pain. Unless he was a sadist. That wound be fun, I could definitely think of some...interesting things that characteristic could be put to use for. His thoughts were, once again, aligned with mine, as he responded,

"Magic, once again, comes to our aid." His voice was amused, and I blushed into the pillow. I had forgotten, of course. Suddenly my entrance felt slippery and wet, and I realized that he could use wandless magic. The revelation quickly disappeared as he entered two fingers into me, moving them about and stretching the hole. I couldn't, for a moment, register the feeling, but when I did, the pleasure took me. I moaned yet again into the pillow and I swear I could feel him smirk.

Suddenly his fingers were gone, and, before I could mourn that loss, a much larger pressure entered me very, very slowly. He pulled out, and then slowly pushed back in. It did hurt, but the pain was minimal compared to the unrivaled amount of pleasure I felt. In great waves, more than I had ever felt, the feeling crashed over me, sending shivers, sparks of heat, and pinpricks of feeling, throughout my body. He hit something within me that intensified it all the more, and I unconsciously made sounds that he apparently found most pleasing.

Lost in the immense feeling, I did not have a good concept of time. Wave after wave of the heat and sparks passed over me, until I felt myself climax, and then release, my body shuddering as he soon followed. He claims that I fell asleep instantly, but I remember a vague conversation of which he admitted his love for me, though it might have just been a dream. He outright refuses such a conversation occurring, though he does not deny the words spoken, and I have given up in trying to reason with him. Whatever happened next, whether it was a confession of undying love before blissful sleep, or just blissful sleep, I woke to find himself and me clothed in boxers and pants, covered, dry and clean. He was still asleep when I woke, and I was content for the moment to revel in the feeling of his arms around me, of him in my bed. He awoke a few moments later, and we talked, it seemed, for hours (hours of which he denied confessing undying love and all that rot). And then I think I drifted, and then fell unconscious once more, for when I awoke the second time, he was gone.

I have not seen him since that day, and it has been four long and lonely years, years which include me never leaving the house, years of longing, remorse, pain, and suicidal thoughts, though never regret. I have waited for him, and he has not returned. I will continue to wait, though I doubt he will return. It is all I can do. It is all I have the strength for. It is what keeps me sane; the very thought of him. Some nights, I agonize over it, wonder why he would give me a piece of heaven, just to snatch it back. Some nights I wish to slit my wrist and watch myself bleed. Some nights I think I'll go crazy from the memory of that one, prefect night. Some nights I wish I had never knew him.

It was only after the second year went by that I found the paper. After realizing his departure, I had moved to the couch, and never set foot in my room, nor the guest's room. It was only when I rushed into my room in order to find a book that would perhaps divert my mind from thoughts of him that I saw it. It was lying on the bed, sitting in a dignified matter on top of the unmade sheets. I had picked it up hesitantly, positive it had not been there when I had last fled that room, so many months ago. There were fourteen words there.

_I will not allow myself happiness when I have cause so many others suffering._

These words have haunted me. I've repeated them, so much like a chant, a spell. A piece of magic that will allow me peace, allow me comfort on the darkest of nights. My only thoughts in response to the note were; _why did he force me to become void of happiness, as well? Surely he knew the depth of my emotions. Why...how could he leave me?_ These thoughts eventually led to my lashing out on a poor, unsuspecting bit of furniture (I believe, over the past four years, that not one bit of my furnishing can say they do not sport a scratch or nick from my angry fingernails), And so I attempt not to think them. The only thing that comes of the note is strength. Strength to me; for, if I had truly believed that he was not happy with me, that he could not love me, I might have killed myself years ago. But no, with this note, I knew he felt _something_, and I was determined to wait for as long as it took for that to bring him back to me.

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A/N: okay, so WHY did that turn so angsty? Truly, I have no idea! It's impossible for me to write a nice, HAPPY, non-insanely-angsty oneshot, isn't it!? Gosh! Okay, so its 1:30am, day after new years day and I'm tired! I was happily on my way to sleep when I got a brilliant idea for a oneshot. So, like an obedient fangirl-authress, I wearily turned on my computer and booted it up, sat around and waited, then looked in my 'Snarry' folder. In the middle of creating a new word doc. I spotted this sad little piece of work; something I had been too lazy to finish. (Of course, I'm also being too lazy to finish 'Scars and Reasons', so obviously I have a problem) So, convincing myself I would read over it, once, quickly, and then be done, I started reading. I liked it too much, I had to keep going! So...I did. NOW, I'm off to write off the ending to 'Scars and Reasons' (almost done!) write up the brilliant idea I got in the first place, of which I'll name 'Bound' then go to bed. I hope my writing doesn't turn to shit, cause I'm on a bit of a roll. Always readers; don't get discouraged. The reason I'm writing these instead of Always chapter 15 is mostly because this new PC doesn't have MS word (its most sophisticated writing thingy is WordPad, if that puts things in perspective) and because Always is not yet on this PC. But that will soon enough be fixed, so no worried. -Wink- loves you all! R&R!!!

-Kozy


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